


Can I still be your pessimist?

by dasyatidae



Category: Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: F/F, Hockey, supportive girlfriends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-10
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2019-04-20 23:13:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14271624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dasyatidae/pseuds/dasyatidae
Summary: Lovett's nervous about her first rec hockey league game.





	Can I still be your pessimist?

**Author's Note:**

> We were riffing on an epic NHL AU a while back, which I would dearly love to write. This is not that - it's a cute girl Lovett (+ Tommy + Ronan) drabble I compulsively wrote yesterday while freaking out about my own very first hockey game (which went fine, thx). I would not have guessed that this would be my first podsa contribution, but hey, here we are. :) 
> 
> Title is from Wild Nothing's "Pessimist" track. I dunno, their Gemini album's been giving me tommyjon feels lately.
> 
> Keep it secret + safe, bless the fourth wall, etc etc

_Should I come up?_   Tommy texts.  
  
_No, I got it_ , Lovett responds, then proceeds to keep Tommy waiting a solid fifteen minutes. Tommy reads her emails, considers whether to cue up a podcast instead of the playlist of corny, inspirational sports-montage jams she’d stayed up way too late creating for the occasion. The moment the door to the apartment building opens, Tommy’s up and out of the car, sprinting up the steps to help Lovett with her gear.  
  
She reaches for the equipment bag—which is enormous, almost as big as Lovett, its straps clearly digging into her shoulder and making her move in an awkward shuffle. Lovett thrusts her stick into Tommy’s hands instead. “I said I’ve got it,” she snaps, twisting away and shuffle-stomping toward the car.  
  
“Okay.” Tommy runs a hand through her hair, doubtless making her cowlick worse, then follows. Lovett allows her to open the car door, then begins to heave the bag inside.  
  
“This thing’s like a fucking body bag,” she gripes, leaning to push it across the back seat. “When I die an inevitable and humiliating sports death, you can just empty it out and shove me inside.”  
  
Tommy laughs. Lovett looks fucking hot—Adidas track pants slouching down the curves of her hips, her shirts riding up so Tommy can see the thick band of her Rodeo underwear and a stripe of pale skin. She’s wearing an ancient graphic tee covered in confusing math jokes, clumsily cut into what’s practically a crop top, with one of Tommy’s plaid button ups thrown over it. Her special occasion purple sneakers are untied. Tommy wants to step forward and wrap her arms around her, to kiss her ear and the back of her neck.  
  
Slamming the car door, Lovett leans back against Tommy’s Subaru, lifts her chin, finally meeting Tommy’s eyes. “I’m freaking out,” she declares.  
  
Tommy tosses the hockey stick back and forth between her hands, a reflexive gesture that Lovett follows with narrowed eyes. Yesterday, she showed Lovett how to tape a stick, and Lovett did a really good job. “Did you text Ro?” Tommy asks after a beat, voice steady, calm.  
  
Lovett groans and turns away, gets into the passenger seat. Tommy stashes her stick in the back, on top of the bag, and then jogs around to climb into the driver’s seat.  
  
“Of course I texted Ro!” Lovett huffs, launching into a rant before Tommy’s finished buckling her seatbelt. “She thinks it’s funny. Keeps teasing me, saying that since I can’t compete with her poshness, I’m trying to, like, remake myself in your jock image—”  
  
She waves her phone in Tommy’s face, showing Tommy Ronan’s recent messages—a kissing face brunch selfie where Ro manages to look elegant as fuck despite probably having just rolled out of bed after a night out dancing—a string of heart emojis— _you’ll always be my scary spice._  
  
“She’s such a fucking mean girl,” Lovett whines. “Ugh, look at how her skin’s glowing. I hate her so much.”  
  
Tommy bites the inside of her cheek, trying not to smile.  
  
Lovett moans again, dropping the phone in her lap. “She’s at brunch! That’s what I should be doing—brunching! Stuffing myself and submerging my face in a pitcher of mimosas—”  
  
“Do mimosas come in pitchers?” Tommy asks. “You’re thinking of margaritas.”  
  
Lovett just moans louder—and, really, it’s kind of a problem when her over-the-top distress noises start to veer too close to her unraveling-in-bed noises—not so much in her car, Tommy supposes, but definitely when they’re out in public. Lovett thunks her head back against the seat. “Tommy, why am I doing this? I’m going to suck so bad.”  
  
“Babe.” Tommy reaches out and massages Lovett’s shoulder, the back of her neck where her curls are escaping from her messy bun.  
  
After a moment, Lovett looks over with those big brown eyes that always tie Tommy’s stomach in knots—like maybe she’s finally settled enough to hear Tommy’s words of encouragement.  
  
_It’s just a rec league,_ Tommy thinks and doesn’t say. _You’re going to be amazing. You’re going to have so much fun. Everyone else is going to be a total beginner too. You should have seen my first game._ Tommy bites her lip. Lovett’s going out on a limb, way outside of her comfort zone, and as brave as she is about taking life’s punches—putting her whole heart into every project, trying and failing, learning, growing, getting better and even more awesome everyday—Tommy knows it’s hard for her, doing something she’s not good at, something where she won’t be a star.  
  
Tommy takes a deep breath. “You are going to suck so bad,” she says solemnly.  
  
Lovett gasps and launches herself at Tommy, smacking her arm and digging her fingers into the most ticklish spots on her ribs. “You bully!” she shrieks as Tommy, eyes teary from laughing, attempts to tickle her back, then just sweeps her up in her arms.  
  
“It’s okay,” Tommy says into her hair, holding her tight. “It’s your first game. You’re supposed to suck. You’re going to do an amazing job of sucking.” She finally lets herself press a kiss just behind Lovett’s ear. “It’s going to be so much fun.”  
  
Lovett laughs, then pulls back to cup Tommy’s face; she catches Tommy’s lower lip between her teeth. “Thanks for the pep talk,” she says against Tommy’s lips.  
  
When they pull apart, Tommy unlocks her phone and hits play, flooding the car with the opening chords of “Eye of the Tiger.”  
  
“Oh my God, you are such a dork,” Lovett says, but she’s smiling and squeezing Tommy’s hand, so Tommy’s counting it as a win. She backs out of the driveway, shifting gears with one hand so she can hold onto Lovett’s sweaty palm with her other, all the way to the ice rink.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I vaguely tumble things @ coffeecupandcorgi


End file.
